Weak Fuel Pump
Repair Bay This is an L-shaped room, stocked with plenty of repair supplies. Several repair tables line the front portion of the room, shining antiseptically clean. Every shining tool and piece of equipment is stored neatly in place...including several unusual and complex monitor machines which seem to have been built by hand. The medic in charge here must be a meticulous neat-freak who is very serious about his job. A dark, charred spot marks the floor in the rear of the room. Fleet trudges in wearily. He's considerably dirtier than he'd prefer, and he's heading for the hoses next to the cleaning gear locker. Hook stands in the repair bay waving his arms about in what seems like a random fashion. Around each forearm is a band of metal, set with flashing lights. On the table opposite are two manipulator arms, mimicing Hook's every move. "99.97 percent accuracy" Hook mutters to himself. "That's PATHETIC." Fleet looks up at Hook and shakes his head. As he turns the hose on he mutters something snide about misclocked tech-types. Possibly he's too mentally worn to realize he just spoke aloud. Hook turns to face the newcomer, about to deliver a stinging retort. "Oh.. it's just /you/" he remarks instead. "I thought it was Mixmaster, or someone important." Fleet works to wipe some of the grime off his pale yellow paintjob. "That's right, me. Official member of the Charr Cleanup Crew," he grumbles. "Although considering Arachnae's relegated Mixmaster himself to that roll as well, I suppose I have pretty good company. Not sure how you managed to escape the assignment... possibly because you haven't tried to play the trumpet around her." Hook smirks. "I have avoided that rather noisome chore by the simple fact that I am a /lot/ smarter than my rather.. /erratic/ brother. However, if we're cooped up here for too much longer, I'm afraid we'll /all/ get on each others tactile sensors." Fleet cocks his head. "You say that as though it hasn't happened yet." He wanders over, still wet, to get a closer look at the band around Hook's forearm. Hook makes a dismissive gesture, the manipulator arms behind him copying his every move. "Well those of us with /superior/ intellect are able to supress those urges to strangle our comrades, for the good of the many and so on, and so forth. Personally, I just keep busy." He gives Fleet a look that indicates that he thinks the Seeker is slacking off. Fleet makes his staticy snort as he watches the manipulator arms move. "And keep others busy, apparently... however, despite your best efforts, this is now the cleanest base that the Decepticon Empire doesn't use." He wanders over to the arms themselves. The yellow seeker raises his still wet arm as though he intends to touch the device, although there is an almost deliberate slowness to his action. Hook ignores that attempt at a snide comment. "Be careful with those...uh... Flint" he warns. "I've been calibrating those all day. Soon I shall have them within a nano-click of perfect accuracy." Fleet mutters, "You'd think someone so leaking obsessed with accuracy could get my name right from time to time..." Hook hms? "So your name isn't "Flint"? Strange. I'm /sure/ that's what you said.. Flip, was it?" Fleet's hand drifts closer, but it almost seems a challenge. "Fleet, Hook. My name is Fleet. As in swift of wing, or group of many.” Hook moves his hand, making the maniuplator arm shy away from Fleet's inquisitive hand. "I am /aware/ of the meaning of the word, Fleet" Hook replies huffily. "Perhaps you need a lesson on the meaning of the words "Do not touch"?" Fleet claps his hand and spins around, grinning. "Great Cybertron, but you said my name correctly!" he laughs. "If my fuel pump doesn't seize up from the shock, I may just hug you!" .... Perhaps the strain of the constant cleaning, enclosure, and lack of flight is getting to the yellow Seeker. Hook rolls his optics. "Yes, well.. a weak fuel pump you say? Perhaps you require that checked. And I /do/ need to test these manipulator arms..." Fleet crosses his arms. "99.97 percent accuracy, you were saying?" Hook nods. "Yes, not /nearly/ accurate enough. But I'm sure with the data collected from some experiance with some rather delicate surgery - say, removing your fuel pump for a /thorough/ scan, their accuracy will improve." Fleet rests a hand against the meditable, using it to prop himself up as he leans against it. "Now, I'm no expert in electro-mechanical medicine, but don't I kind of *need* my fuel pump?" Hook shrugs, the mechanical arms doing the same. "Oh yes. Very much so. But the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. So long as that few isn't /me/, of course." Flee walks around the table so that it stands between Hook and himself, although there's no nervousness in the act. He leans forward. "Well, if it's a question of needs, then my question is, why would you *need* to do it in this particular fashion? Can't you think of a test that doesn't involve, oh, my expiration? While benefiting the many over the few is all well and good, if we could find a way to benefit the all, that would be even better." He lowers himself to his elbows and clasps his hands, resting his chin on them as he smirks. "Or do you lack the creativity to deal with *that* particular challenge?" "Efficiency" Hook states. "I need to test my manipulator arms, you claim to have a faulty fuel pump, one which will fail at the merest hint of surprise. By using one to check the other, I accomplish two things at once. Even if one thing fails - say, my manipulator arms accidently sever your important fuel lines, making re-installation impossible - then at least it shows an area that needs improving. Oh, and your pump will still be removed to be checked." Fleet narrows his optics. "I'm going to assume that you're familiar with concept of sarcasm, and that you just missed the fact that I was employing it because you're so wrapped up in your tests." Hook hms? "Oh I'm sorry.. you were being /sarcastic/? Do try harder next time won't you?" Hook raises one optic-ridge. "It does tend to blend into your normal simple demeanor. No offense, of course..." Fleet barks a brief laugh. "Oh, none taken! At this point, I'm more amused than anything else!" Hook eyes Fleet. "Well, whatever keeps you sane, I'm sure" he says, while making a mental note; forward Fleet's name for any medical experiments in the near future. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to remove your fuel pump and take a look at it?" Fleet raises himself back onto his hands, shaking his head. "Now, if you've got a way to work on those things that doesn't involve the unnecessary removal of essential internal components, I am willing to help. Being trapped in here, cleaning or no, is beginning to wear on me, and frankly, I trust you a lot more with those things than with that glue-gun of yours, or whatever it was." "I'm afraid only the most delicate of manipulations will be necssary to gauge their accuracy at such fine levels" Hook replies in all seriousness as he removes the rings from his forearms. "But I suppose I can always test them on some spare parts." Fleet stands up straight. "Well, that alternative has my vote. What with the whole avoiding unnecessary risks and such." Although his tone is more or less serious, someone who listens closely (which means, probably not Hook) might be able to discern a hint of amusement. Hook taps his fingertips on the benchtop. "Spare parts are hardly a /challenge/ though" he replies. "Perhaps something unfortunate will happen to Mixmaster, and I can test it on him." Fleet asks, "What, a freak cleansing accident?" Hook grins, entertaining that prospect. "Hm, maybe. He isn't the most co-ordinated mech on the planet. Perhaps he'll fall over one of those..." he waves a hand vaguely "..cleaning.. tool.. things that you people use." Fleet suppresses an amused smile. "I think he's mostly been using his built in implements of mass cleansing, but even so, I've never met anyone *that* uncoordinated, and I've worked with some pretty klutzy mechs." Hook frowns. "That's /my/ brother you're talking about" Hook replies, suddenly irritated. "He's a clutz.. but not /that/ bad. Compared to the rest of the peons around here, he's positively an artist.” Fleet shakes his head. "*I* never meant to claim *he* was a klutz. I was expressing my disbelief that Mixmaster is uncoordinated enough to hurt himself cleaning, by referencing examples of klutzes I've known that were themselves incapable of it. Mixmaster's reputation is impressive. You don't get a reputation like that without earning it. I've worked with people whose reputations are even less existent than my own, who were klutzes. They were incapable of hurting themselves cleaning, therefore I was expressing doubt that Mixmaster was capable of such a thing. Follow?” Hook hmphs. "You should learn to apply the pricipals of efficiency to speech as well as action. You're beginning to /sound/ like Mixmaster now. And believe me, one of him is quite enough." Fleet chuckles softly. "Me? But I'm just a peon, a pastel piece of scenery! In fact, you honor me with your continued conversation." He bows forward slightly, respectfully. The move is playful, but not mocking. Almost. He straightens, serious. "I've also reached my limit for cleaning, and appreciate this. I needed a mental break, so to speak." Hook nods, taking Fleet's words completely at face value. "Well you never know.. dedicate yourself for a few thousand Breem, and you may be moved off cleaning duties into something more stimulating." Fleet laughs. "Hook! I'm a *Seeker*! My normal function, when I'm not locked into this place, is aerial combat. Which is quite a bit more stimulating." He stands up straight, shaking his head a little. "Well, I'll let you get back to your work. I'll go... practice in the combat room, or something. Let me know if there's any way I can help that *won't* kill me off." With that, he heads for the door.